


Tonight

by greyeyedwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Melodrama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 09:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13784898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyeyedwarden/pseuds/greyeyedwarden
Summary: Female Warden (not Cousland) reflects on the last year the night before the battle with the Archdemon





	Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Written circa Feb 2014 (so the VERY beginning of my writing adventures - can't answer for quality)

She felt so cold despite the huge fire roaring in the grate. She stared at the flames in silence as she rubbed her hands along her arms for warmth. Her calluses made a soft grating sound as they snagged against the silk chemise that had been given to her to sleep in. She knew the servants had meant well; she was, after all, an honored guest, and her own clothes were little more than patches and rags. But she had liked her patches and rags. The wool had at least been warm and leather did not pucker and pull under her rough fingers.

She sighed and looked around her. The room was large, but it felt claustrophobic. The walls and floor were solid stone, heavy and cold and worn smooth from centuries of wear. And then of course you could not see the stars from inside. Without the stars she felt trapped. She had never really noticed the stars before starting this journey, but now they were everything for her: compass, calendar, and above all, comfort. She needed comfort on a night like this. For tomorrow was battle and possibly… no, absolutely death.

She turned away from the fire and padded over to the bed. She did not want to sleep, but perhaps she would be warmer under its blankets. She ran her hand across the rich brocade edging the feather-stuffed pillow. Once she would have been thrilled to have such finery. But she had grown used to sleeping on the ground with only a sheepskin pelt between her and it. And this bed was large, large enough for three or maybe four. It was too large for the likes of her. It seemed even more gigantic to her than it really was, since she had not slept alone in near on a year.

“Don’t think about him,” she whispered to herself. “It can only hurt you."

But the thoughts came anyway.

She should have asked his uncle the Arl to let them stay together. But to do that would be to admit that humble little her and the prince, the future king, were… It would certainly not be the first time a great man would spend his nights with an unwed waif, but she would not have the nobles pull his name through the dirt, especially not so soon after she had helped raise him so high.

He had only been declared heir that afternoon. The bastard son of a serving girl, that was all he was. A royal bastard, but a bastard just the same. It had taken years’ worth of convincing the right sort of people to recognize him. Perhaps if she had allowed herself to convince the wrong sort of people too she would not have needed to murder.

No, it was not murder. Loghain had been a traitor, a usurper. She had only done what needed to be done. And if she had not… Neither Loghain nor his daughter Anora would be kind to a bastard prince. They would not be able to get away with killing him, he did have powerful friends after all, but they could banish him. And then he would be gone. Gone! And if she tried to follow they would probably slap her in irons for her insolence. And then who knew when they would see each other again, or what might happen in the interim. Perhaps he would die abroad. Or worse: perhaps he might cease loving her back. No, no she could not bear that. Better do what she had done, and what she was going to do.

Her scarred hands scraped along the linen of a pillow she was not laying on, following the lumps in the featherdown. Why give her two if they did not think she would share the bed? The servants weren’t stupid, nor were the nobles. She suspected few if any of the people who would see battle tomorrow were spending the night alone. All she needed to do was wake the servant sleeping just outside the door and tell her to fetch him, or if she would like to be discrete, leave the lass and take a short walk through some halls to his chamber. That would be all it would take.

She played the scene in her head. She would wake him with some whispered words, and he would see her, saying her name in his joyous surprise. But she would hush him and remind him that a castle slept around them now, and castles unlike trees had ears. They must be discrete. But he would ignore her warning and make beautiful love to her. Or perhaps he would be nervous about the morrow, and it would make him clumsy and unsure, like the night she took from him that which he could not get back. But that would not matter. If she had wanted someone skilled in the art, she would have stayed with Zevran.

She had seen the former assassin just a few hours before, flirting with a cleaning girl and a high lord in the same breath. She wondered which was warming his bed tonight, perhaps both. She liked to think he had matured somewhat in the last few years, but she would not fault the man for backsliding on a night such as this. Or perhaps the rogue had beckoned Leliana to him. The bard was a tiger, they could both attest to that. She almost laughed remembering the time she had caught them behind a boat shack in Redcliff. Leliana’s face had gone almost as red as her hair, but Zevran had shrugged and asked if she wanted to join.

But days of frivolity were behind her, even then. She had given her heart away at the beginning of this journey. Not long after meeting him, she had found herself in love with a king’s bastard. At first she had thought him a little arrogant and a lot foolish, though now it seemed that she had only seen her own flaws reflecting back at her. He had proved himself kind, and intelligent in his own way. And even in the first few bleak days when they were the only survivors of the rout that killed his half-brother the king, he had made her laugh. She had always been far too serious for someone of so few years, but he could make her laugh. And that was worth all his faults and more.

“He is everything!” she said to the shadows leaping along the wall. “That is why I must do it!” As she spoke, she felt the fear rise inside her. She dare not say it, but if she said it, maybe it would not choke her so. “But I am afraid to die!”

The Archdemon, the monster they were to fight the next day, could only be killed by a Warden. And then that Warden would die. And since there were only three of them, her and him and a strange man neither of them knew, she had decided that it must be her. She would gladly die for him and the country. And then he could be a proper king with a proper noble queen at his side.

Finally the tears that had been burning in her throat spilled out of her eyes. She wanted to speak her fear to her love so he might comfort her, but he was the last person who could know. If he found out her plan to sacrifice herself… Maker bless him, he would try to stop her. She knew his view: he never wanted any of this. He never wanted to be king except that she insisted. And he would not want to live without her, king or no. He was enough of a fool and a hero to take the opportunity, especially if it meant saving her.

She sat up to ease her sobbing. Her head spun and ached. It had gotten so warm, so very warm. She wanted water to wash this tearful shame from her face. She was not one to cry often. She was a decider, a leader, a fighter. She had decided, she would lead, she would fight. And die. But she was also a lover, and as lost a soul as the ones she dragged along with her. They trusted her, far more than she trusted herself. She may have been able to trick them with her confident smile, but every time she made a choice her own heart screamed. How could she know she was doing right?

Her feet were cooled by the stone floor, a blessing since it felt like every part of her was on fire. She walked across the room to a table where the servants had placed an ewer and a bowl for washing, and a tray of food and wine should she become hungry. The truth was, she was very hungry. Her stomach felt like it had collapsed upon itself. But as she raised a piece of bread to her lips the smell reminded her that she had already retched up what she had managed to swallow at dinner and would likely do the same with anything she ate now. Instead she washed her face and poured a finger of wine in the hopes that it would put her to sleep.

But rather than drinking, she stared at it. There was time yet to call Morrigan. But no. She would not go back to her and play her devils’ games. But were they devils’ games? All she had promised was life. Life for her and life for him. And life for a new babe. A babe of Morrigan’s. Which meant witch-spawn at the least.

She did not trust Morrigan. She never had. The woman from the Wilds could change her shape at will, and you could never trust that sort. Nor could you trust someone who sent you to kill her own mother for a book and a whispered threat. But she had needed Morrigan’s support in these last years and so she had done it. Not that Flemeth had fallen easily. Nor was anyone sure the dangerous crone was dead. If not, she had made a horrible enemy. And for what? A “friend” she could not even turn her back to lest she feel a knife between her shoulders.

That was what had made the offer so perplexing. Morrigan never did anything that did not serve her own purposes. It had sounded so sweet, an offer for rescue for both her and her beloved. And the price had sounded so cheap: an hour. An hour with him to make a babe. But that was the tax on the price, that babe. What could Morrigan want a babe for? Some sort of bizarre sacrifice, no doubt. Or else it was a hellspawn to do her bidding. Whatever she wanted it for, she must want it fiercely to request a time of passion with a man she despised. Or maybe it had all been a ruse to get him alone so she could kill him. That sounded more like Morrigan, murder and then flight, leaving all they had worked for in shambles.

But he would have done it, had Morrigan brought the offer to him first. Anything to save the woman he loved. But then he would regret it, almost as soon as he did it. He would remember the tax. And then he might seek to destroy her and the child, just as she would. He would not be able to let another demon into the world, though he would be loath to kill an infant. But maybe he had done it already? Perhaps Morrigan had left her only to find him and offer him the same chance. He was so afraid of the harpy. Would he do it with just her word? Which fear would win? His fear of the mad witch or his fear of losing the woman he claimed was his only love?

But that was all just speculation. She sipped the wine. Nothing was ever sure. Perhaps she would not die tomorrow. She had not died yet. Perhaps she would only be injured. She was well known; they would find her and heal her quickly. And with Wynne’s quick… But there was no guarantee Wynne would live through the battle. There was no guarantee any of them would live through the battle. There was no guarantee she would even make it to the Archdemon. And if she did not there would be no purpose to Morrigan’s tricks except to please Morrigan. She was glad she had sent the Wilds woman away.

It was growing colder again, and darker. The fire was dwindling slowly. The night was wearing on. She should sleep, she knew, but once dawn came there would be no time. No time to brood or even think. Certainly no time for tearful goodbyes.

“Maker?” she murmured into the dusky emptiness. She had always relied on herself, but who does not turn to a higher power in their dying hours? “Maker, hear me,” she said again with more surety. She had learned long ago that it was best put on a brave face when you were most vulnerable. “I must… I must die tomorrow. That I accept. But I must ask: spare my companions. They are good people in their own way, and they deserve life. But if… if any of them must make their end with me, guide our spirits to each other so that we may go into the unknown with a friend.

“And as for my love, my life… I beg you, let him live. He will be great, the greatest king this country has ever known. Protect him from his own foolishness. Make it so the crown never weighs heavy on his head. And may he find… May he find another woman, one that he can love even better than me. May he have joy and peace and many sons and…” She took a breath to steady her wavering voice. “And may he remain as good a man as I know he is. Do not let him break.”

Silence pressed on her ears. Not that she had expected an answer. The Maker spoke directly to no one except his prophet, and maybe Leliana if you believed what the bard said. She smiled imagining her friend having a jaunty conversation about the weather with the creator of all things. She would miss her. She would miss all of them. That was what terrified her most. Not the dying, dying was fairly quick and painless if it was gone about in the right way. It was the nothingness.

Before this journey she had had nothing. No proper home, no family, no hope. When Duncan asked her to join the Wardens, she accepted because she knew she had nothing to lose. And that was when, even though the world was in chaos around her, she found so much. She finally had something to fight for against the rising darkness. She lived for a purpose. They became a family, wherever they set camp became home. And now… she was going to lose it all again. But that was her purpose too. And yet that did not make it easier to think on.

And so best not to think on it. She swallowed the rest of the wine in her cup and returned to bed. But no sooner had she pulled the blankets over her shoulder then she heard her name called gently, almost inaudibly. She started and sat up, hoping it was not a dream.

He was standing there in the doorway, dressed in silks as would befit the prince he was. He looked like he was born to wear them.

“My king,” she said with a half-smile.

Ever the clown, he looked over his own shoulder. “Where?”

She could not help but laugh. But then she drew her knees up to her chest. “You should not be here. You have a reputation to consider now.”

With his long strides he was by the side of her bed in only a few steps. “That never stopped my father.” He slid comfortably under the blankets and wrapped his arms around her. “Besides, I was lonely.”

She buried her face against his shoulder like she had done so many times before. But it was different, so different. The silk and the linen and the softness. His dusky and metallic scent masked under incense. “I was lonely too,” she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. “Whatever happens tomorrow…”

“Don’t talk about tomorrow.” Her own voice sounded sharp, the voice a commander. The sound gave her confidence. Confidence enough at least to fake a smile. “We will all end up in the same place, sooner or later. Tomorrow doesn’t matter.”

He looked at her. She was sure he could see the lie written all over her face, the fear in her eyes. But instead he shrugged and gathered her closer to him. “Tomorrow doesn’t matter because I have you tonight.”


End file.
